Slow down

There are two things on my mind.

1. It’s too easy for me to forget where I am.
2. I feel like I need to move fast a lot of the time, why?

Maybe these two are in fact one, or at least inexorably linked.

I rarely cross the road in a straight line. As long as traffic permits, I will veer out and cross at a diagonal, shaving metres off my route by taking the Euclidean distance rather than the taxicab route. Did I need to? Well, its possible, maybe probable, that I’m late. If I ought to leave home in 10 minutes to be on time, I will undertake a 15 minute activity. I rush to set up the things I need in order to relax. I just don’t spend time not doing.

“If you don’t do it this year, you’ll be one year older when you do”
– Warren Miller.

Another side to Warren’s coin is emerging: if you try to get it all done all at once, you won’t get much of anything done at all.

Where am I? I am at home in a house in Fulham. I am on a couch. I can see a rowing machine and a glass rhinoceros.

It is a dark night. No, that is not quite true: from inside, the dark surrounds me. I know that, were I to go out into it, it wouldn’t be so dark. I can hear the planes that would light up the sky. I can almost glimpse the orange haze that would line the close horizon.

My concentration span seems infantile lately. Why right now as I write I flit screens back to an open browser, with no purpose other than to not stay still. What am I scared of? What is it about stillness? Why do I shy away?

get it done get it done get it done get it done get it done get it done

Chants my thinking brain. Behind, somewhere, is another voice, holding its breath. I can acknowledge it, I think, though I need patience.

Wait.

As I sit and let it come my breath releases in a long sigh.

Something slowly shifts.

Quiet.
Like silence but not really silent.
Just that still sort of quiet
like the sound of a page being turned in a book
or a pause in a walk in the woods.

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